


Once only diamonds mattered

by gloatingraccoon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gen, One-Sided Relationship, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pre-Sburb/Sgrub, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloatingraccoon/pseuds/gloatingraccoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Eridan Ampora and you are dangerous. That’s why you need a moirail. At least, that’s what you keep repeating yourself every time you panic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once only diamonds mattered

**> Enter name.**

Your name is **Eridan Ampora** and you are dangerous.

You know you are. You’d like to think you were this fearsome military leader out to make the world a better place through intrigue, mass murder and dramatic swings of your cape, but truth is, no matter how sharp and brilliant your strategy skills are, you’re still little more than a kid with funny hair and history is full of people much more successful than you that met an untimely demise.

Such as your ancestor. A great man brought to ruin by his crippling inability to have healthy relationships and tell a funny joke. When you learned his story you swore to yourself you wouldn’t be going down that road, no matter the cost.

You are Eridan Ampora and you are dangerous. That’s why you need a moirail.

This is what you keep repeating yourself every time you panic at the thought. Because your moirail is both your solution and your problem.

It’s none of her fault, of course. You’ve been friends since you were little more than wigglers, and she knows how to take care of you. She lets you talk her earfin off about all the awesome things you’ll do in the fleet, and she takes you hunting for sunken treasures to cheer you up when you’re upset. You slaughter lusi daily to help her feed her fearsome custodian, and sometimes, when you both need to relax, you two meet up on the beach and just stay there and talk, and talk, and talk. She cuddles in your lap and you wrap your cape around her, and you try not to think too much about how soft and perfect she feels in your arms. You’d think you were one damn lucky motherglubber, if you weren’t too busy pretending you’re not pathetically flushed for her every. Single. Fucking. Day. 

Your moirail is none other than **Feferi Peixes** , the heiress apparent, and you’ve always known you were made for each other.

This is what you keep repeating her when you need to cheer her up, or to win her back when you snap at her. Because you do happen to snap at her, especially lately. Actually it’s a miracle she has the patience to bother with you sometimes, really, although you don’t like to admit this.

In fact, tonight is precisely one of those times. You spent a good chunk of the night sulking around and ranting at her over Trollian about how your dumb landdweller kismesis is neglecting you lately, which quickly escalated into one of your frustrating sessions of hatching a new genocide plan only for her to berate you until you changed your mind - or in this case, until you were too tired and worn out to do anything but snap and wall her out with your over-the-top theatrics. This time it was “nobody understands, not even you”, one of your favourites. She didn’t reply at first, and at this point you were ready for a quick goodbye before logging off and spending the rest of the night wallowing in self-pity, maybe trolling Karkat or Kanaya to vent over your predicament. Your moirail, however, wasn’t going to have any of that. She perked right up and out of the blue, announced she was going to come over to cut your hair, since it had clearly grown so much from last time that it was infesting your think pan and making you a lot grumpier than usual. She phrased it as a statement instead of a proposal, but she had the decency to add “only if you don’t mind” right away. Trying your best to avoid sounding too pathetically relieved that despite everything she actually wanted to see you - which of course is precisely how you felt -, you replied that hey, guess what, now that you thought about it you really needed a haircut.

So there she is, right here and now, in your hive, all wild hair and fish puns and contagious, silvery laughter, as if nothing happened. Just seeing her makes you feel better, and like the previous times, you help her set up everything for your haircut in your respiteblock: towels, scissors, your shampoo, your comb and a basin with warm water. Of course, given that she’s used to cutting your hair when you need it, just like you’re used to brushing and braiding hers now and then, she perfectly knows where everything she needs is in your hive and could very well do alone. But hey, she’s your guest, and she’s Feferi, and you need to show her how much you appreciate her being here. Even if she can’t know how much all of this really means to you.

What will you do?

**> Eridan: Quit your whining and sit down.**

You weren’t whining! That was just good old angsting and introspection, as required by your age, your royal status and your flamboyant persona. Don’t like it, don’t read it. You do sit down though, with your back to the small table where you put the basin, and let her guide you. How else is she going to wash your hair if you don’t comply?

You’re not sure why she has to wash your hair as well as cut it. You could just go take a shower, wash your own hair like a big boy and come back to her with your hair wet. You can’t quite remember how all this little ritual between you got started. She sure doesn’t seem to mind washing your hair, and you don’t want to bring up the issue out of fear that she’d see it as an attempt to push her away.

That, and you absolutely love it when she washes your hair. You wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.

At her gentle pull on your jaw, you lay your head back towards the basin and she starts lathering your hair with warm, foamy water. The smell that fills your nostrils is just the sour, chemical smell of your shampoo, but the way it mixes with her own scent, salty and sweet like seaweed and wild flowers, brings back the memories of so many times before. As her hands massage your head, you spontaneously close your eyes and relax completely on the chair, the tension in your nerves melting under her touch. Fingers trace circles and paths in your skin, following every bony curve, on the back and on the sides, then sliding up to the top. You shiver as she brushes softly at the base of your horns on the way back, and you hope the sudden warmth on your cheeks is not too purple. Damn. You’re used to washing the area around your horns very carefully, given how delicate it is, and it’s not like you’re that… sensitive to your own touch. Unless you’re actively trying for it, which is something you shouldn’t really think about now because holy shit you’re probably turning into a finned plum right now. You clear up your throat and shift nervously in your seat, and you hear her giggle. Holy mother of fuck it’s going to be the most embarrassing day in your life if she finally put two and two together.

Which would almost be a relief, really. You played it all in your mind so many times, tried to imagine so many scenarios in which you inadvertently dropped your mask, only for her to reveal to you how she really longed to touch you indiscreetly all along, and similar unlikely vocabulary variations.

In case it wasn’t clear, you fantasize a lot. Which doesn’t help at all with your mood, really. But you know where dreams ends and harsh, complicated reality begins.

“You’re so tense,” she says in an amused tone. Bless this girl’s innocence. “Relax, sealy. What is it?”

You swallow and reluctantly open your eyes. Lucky for you, you’re a pretty good liar when you need to.

“You’re kinda twistin’ my neck, Fef,” you say, faking a wince. You can’t see her in that position, but you feel her back away a little.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I’m just going to rinse you and I’m done.”

She pours warm water to wash the soap away, then lifts your head and towels off your hair lightly, while you swallow a brief pang of guilt at having let her think she was hurting you. She sorta is, anyway, just not like she thinks, and it’s not really her fault. She wraps the towel around your neck, and finally moves in front of you again, combing your hair and getting ready to cut. You hadn’t fully realized how long your hair had gotten lately: wet and unstyled, it almost reaches your shoulders. But all your attention right now is for her.

As she starts cutting, you lose all sense of time, enthralled by details and sensations. The soft whisper of the scissors, the gentle touch of her fingers parting and shaping your hair, reclining your head when she needs to. Her mouth, black and round like a rare pearl, curling in concentration, the waves of her hair flowing on her shoulders and chest as she moves. Her lovely figure, strong like a swimmer, elegant and graceful like the empress she’s going to be - and close, so close. Your hands spontaneously curl and clench in your lap, and you lick your dry lips. You could just stop fidgeting and wrap your hands on her waist, hold her tight to you. You could just tilt your head up, curl a hand on her neck and kiss her, finally discover how she tastes like. Or you could just stop biting on your own lip and open your mouth to speak. Tell her the truth, tell her everything. There is so much you want to say. 

You could. And yet you cannot move.

Only as a vague smirk blooms on her lips you realize you’re blushing. Fuck. Did she notice?

“This dye is krilling you, Eri. You’re full of split ends,” she says, concentrating on trimming your purple tuft, and you try your best to hide your relief. Ok, so that smile was only related to good natured ribbing over your funny hair antics. No big deal.

At least, that’s what you’d like.

“Also… You have somefin on your mind, and won’t tell me what it is. Because that’s just how much of a grumpy gills you are.”

**> Eridan: Don’t panic.  **

You don’t panic. There’s no need to panic, you can handle this. You freeze, and try your hardest to look nonchalant.

“I don’t know what you’re glubbin’ about, Fef,” you grumble, but she cocks her head on a side to look at you and the stare she gives you makes you swallow. The bubbly princess, the overgrown child all wild hair, bangles and fish puns is gone. Behind pink goggles and long lashes, two big, troubled, glistening eyes dive straight into yours, her pretty black mouth thinning into a pouty curve. Looking at you right now is both a childhood friend and a young woman who despite everything, still knows you all too well. Your moirail. It takes you some effort not to lower your glance.

She drops the scissors on the table behind you, then her hands brush your shoulders, knot behind your neck and she gently pulls you into a hug. Even surprised and uncomfortable as you are, you can’t help but returning the hug, wrapping your arms around her waist, and blood rushes fast to your cheeks as she cradles your head on her chest, running her fingers through your wet hair. The feel of her tender, perky breasts pressed against your face through the thin fabric makes your fingers tingle, but at the same time, it’s more comforting to you than sensuous. Listening to the slow, steady beat of her blood pusher, once more you realize that she is your empress, that this girl is who you want as your matesprit first of all because of who she is, because of the way she fills your life and of everything you’ve shared. The fact that she’s gorgeous would mean nothing to you if you didn’t know her as well as you do.

“Of course you know,” she whispers in your hair. “I want you to be happy, Eridan. I want to help you, I want to take care of you. But how can I do it if you don’t let me?”

Her voice cracks up a little near the end, and you have to close your eyes at the sound. She’s hurt, and it’s your fault, and you’re hurt too, and it’s your fault too. This situation, this stupid fucking quadrant you’ve dug your way into out of fear is wearing out and smothering the both of you. You want to do something. You need to do something. But there’s nothing you can do at this moment without taking a risk.

And you can’t risk with her.

You take a big breath.

“Fef, I…” you start, mumbling into her shirt. She tenses, waiting for you to continue, and for a moment, you almost say it.

During the following nights, you’ll replay this scene endless times in your head. You’ll see yourself finally gathering the courage to speak and tell her the truth, the real reason why you keep snapping and walling her out, tell her everything.  _Fef, I love you_ , you’ll hear yourself saying.  _I’m so pathetically flushed for you it’s killing me. I agreed to being your moirail because I wanted you in my life and was too afraid to risk for what I really wanted. I’ve actually been pale for Karkat all along, and I’m sorry it hurt you. I’ve wanted you as a matesprit since before I understood what this meant._  You’ll see yourself tilting your head up to look at her, flushed fuchsia up to her fins, then wrapping your hand on the back of her neck to pull her down in a glorious kiss you dreamt of for far too long. She’d return your kiss with the same affection and passion, you’ll imagine the soft hug of her lips on yours, her tongue in your mouth, slick and tempting, her quickening breath. Your hands sliding up under her tank top, her hands knotting in your shirt to draw you to the pillow pile.

And… well. Other things.

Right now, of course, you do nothing of the sort. You just let out a big breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Fef… I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I know I make it hard for you and… well… I’m kinda an asshole sometimes. But… you’re still here, with me, even if… I don’t always deserve it. I just wanna say thanks I guess. For everythin’.”

She stiffens against you for a moment, as if pondering your words, those words that tasted so fake and yet so true on the tip of your tongue. You really are afraid of pushing her off and losing her for good - she just doesn’t know the real reason why.

“I’m not going to leave you, grumpy gills,” she whispers, and one of her fingers traces a diamond shape over your back, as she bows down to place a warm, soft kiss on the top of your head, between your horns. The caress of her lips on your damp skin, through your hair, makes you shiver.

You just hope she means it.


End file.
